Deborah Guzzi

The Sowing

Upon the wind sheltered hillside, the sharp tang of metal and the sting of salt air layover a field of blood-red poppies, no Flander's Field.

At years fall, fields of rape roll like waves, in the harshness of winter-sleet, stray boulders bow; like the backs of mothers, daughters sowing.Their nails torn, ragged and bleeding.They bleed by the moon, and son upon the field.